Being Human
by Mai Kusakabe
Summary: The line that differentiates human from object appears to be clear, but sometimes it blurs to the point where it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
1. Being Human

Hello~~

This story sort of came out of nowhere, and I decided to write it even though, I must admit, I don't usually write much angst. I wasn't expecting to ever attempt a story where Marco was a slave, but it seems we can't know anything for sure.

I've tried to keep things believable, at least as much as I could manage. I hope you like it. Reviews are greatly loved and constructive criticism is appreciated.

This story has been beta-read and the plot revised by the lovely Anjelle :D Thank you so much for the help :)

* * *

**Being Human**

Heavy, low gasps are the loudest sound he allows to escape his parted, dry and chapped lips. He clings to consciousness with the same desperate will with which he has been clinging to his sanity and sense of self for this long time of which he lost count a long time ago.

"Truly impressive!" He hears the unnamed, bejeweled middle aged man exclaim, just like so many others did when his 'master' displayed the unique attributes of one of his most pricey possessions. The man goes on and on about how he has healed from all the wounds inflicted upon his body, how he is alive despite the fact that the amount of blood splattered both on the expensive rug and the tools used on him is more than a body has. "And you were right," the man says as an ending note to the compliments he is lavishing upon his acquaintance, "I must admit I didn't believe you when you said it didn't scream. I expected it would when-"

He doesn't pay attention anymore; he can feel how they are done 'playing' with him and can allow himself to ignore their gushing voices.

'It'. That's what he has been called since the first time he arrived here. He hates it just as much as he did that first day, but has long since stopped showing that hatred. Not only does it not make a difference, but his 'master' enjoys showing him that it doesn't matter what he thinks, because he has no power over his person.

He is not a person. That's what they've tried to beat into him from the beginning. But they can't. It doesn't matter that they believe they have accomplished it. His mind is his and, no matter what they try, that's something they won't take away like they did everything else.

His 'master' thinks he doesn't scream because he is so broken he can't do it; the man has never realized that is his form of defiance, his way to show him he that can't control every aspect of him as he so clearly wants.

"Take it away and replace the rug," he hears the house master's voice, and soon enough the guard of six men that carry to and from his cell surround him, one of them taking the chain connected to his collar and pulls to drag him across the floor. It's so common an occurrence that it doesn't even hurt anymore, much less in comparison to everything else that has just happened.

He doesn't move, and he knows the men think he has lost consciousness, his eyes half-lidded as they are every time they think he is. It has been a long time since he actually lost consciousness, but he stays still every time and lets them believe it because that way they leave him alone. The men moving him are as incapable to realize he is human as all the guests that come to the house, and they have no issue attacking him when he is not shackled with kairoseki, because the damage will disappear and no one will never know.

But it is no fun hitting someone unconscious —though they call him 'something', not 'someone'—, as they have complained of in various occasions, and it is hard, very hard, to wake them if they passed out from pain. Or so they think. They don't know he is awake, that he simply doesn't react to their attempts to wake him because they are nothing in comparison to what he has just gone through. They have to be careful; it is their lives in risk if he does die in their care, after all.

* * *

He isn't panting, not even a bead of sweat has broken from his body when the last guard falls, unconscious and quite possibly on his way to being dead, to the ground.

He hears all the frightened, frantic whispers around. The people who were watching the fight in horror are wondering what will happen to them now that the tax collectors have been attacked, their guards going down with them. They are terrified of what the _lord_ will do now, if he will blame them and slaughter them all, or if he will take any other form of retribution. Perhaps steal all their young girls, as he did once a decade ago.

Someone says to capture the assailant, in hopes that it will pacify the lord to know that they are loyal to him and didn't take any part on the attack. No one tries, however, all of them wary of the huge man who has singlehandedly defeated twenty people, the same people that none of them has ever dared to look at the wrong way.

Edward Newgate doesn't care what they think, he has seen and learned all he needed during his few hours here. The villagers have been nice people to him, they have been willing to give him shelter and sell him some provisions despite being so obviously poor themselves. The malnourishment is apparent through the loose, ripped clothes they wear —clothes that in most cases haven't even been patched up—, the poverty and sadness of the village reflected in every dirty corner, every broken board seen in the houses.

He has wondered the reason for this since he arrived, because the land that can be seen as far as sight goes is green. There are plenty of fields surrounding the village. Although not necessarily rich, the people should have been able to live well enough, and certainly be well feed.

The answer presented itself half an hour ago. Two fat men dressed in expensive-looking suits came surrounded by a contingent of armed and muscular soldiers. The villagers ran as they saw them, presumably to enter their homes, and Newgate was the only one left where he had been —the sole patron in the only tavern-restaurant in the whole place— but no one closed their doors. As the men advanced on the street, people came out with offerings to the lord, be it crates of fruit, boxes full of fish or livestock. The two men in suits nodded at every offering, one of them writing something on a notepad, and the guards lifted them up into a cart they dragged among four of them.

Then, when no one came out of from one of the houses, the group stopped. The nervousness and fear could be seen on all the faces peering from their own doors even before ten of the guards marched in and came back moments later dragging an emaciated woman along with two little boys who barely looked better than her. The boys kicked and screamed. The woman just cried, her eyes not moving from who were clearly her two sons.

The three had been thrown to the middle of the dirt path that was the village's main street, and no one reacted when the guards charged their weapons and aimed at them. The woman kept crying and sobbing, hugging the two boys to her body, also preventing them from charging at the men as they were trying to do, and they would have been shot right there if Newgate hadn't intervened, slamming the three men aiming their weapons at them to the ground with his bisento.

That was when the panicked screams broke amongst the citizens, turning to fearful whispers as Newgate took down all the guards present along with the two men who tried to flee when they realized the opponent was too strong for their soldiers.

With all the men down, and the furious whispers he can hear all around from people too scared to step out of their homes —the woman is still crying and embracing her children and hasn't looked up at him once— that pretty much confirm what he has already guessed, Newgate knows what to do next.

That the mansion standing at the top of the hill most likely contains a good amount of treasure is only an added reason to attack it.

* * *

A series of tremors shake the whole building.

The men around him, still halfway through the hallways, stop and look around worriedly. Earthquake, someone says. Then screams come from the opposite direction they are headed to, from the main house.

"The lord!" All six of them exclaim, and there are some rapid looks and nods exchanged.

"We can take care of it," one of the men state, gesturing to himself and the one to his left.

The others nod and, without a glance at their burden, take off running to the main part of the mansion.

The two men in charge of him exchange a worried look, no doubt concerned about the constant screams and crashes now coming from that direction, but he doesn't pay the two of them any mind. The voices coming from there are angry, scared and furious, but there is another. A voice he has never felt before, one that is also angry and furious, one that is so much more powerful than all the others put together that he can barely feel anything else. Whoever it is, they are attracting all the others in the house, and he somehow doubts even that will be enough.

Suddenly, it becomes clear to him. He has been waiting for a chance like this for what feels like his whole life, and he will take it. Death will be an acceptable price if he doesn't succeed because, if he fails now, it means he doesn't have a way out, and death will always be better than anything here.

Slowly moving his hands as to not draw attention from the two guards talking worriedly to one another, he places them flat on the stone floor and concentrates on gathering all the strange strength that came with the ability to hear the voices. He was too weakened already when it came, and has always been aware that he couldn't take his six usual guards with it, but two he can risk.

Gritting his teeth, he lashes a foot out and hits one of the men on the back of the calf, sending him down with a surprised yell on top of his companion, surprise making him release the chain.

Before they can react, in what is pure desperation coursing through his veins, he jumps to his feet, chain held in one hand to prevent them from taking it, and lunges at them, bony fingers going straight for the second man's eyes.

* * *

Newgate looks on with distaste at the body impaled on his bisento. He is a short, overweight man with a curly black beard, hands full of expensive rings. He had been waiting in this room —which appears to be some sort of oversized sitting room full of paintings— surrounded by a small army of fifty men waiting for him. The man, this disgusting parody of a human being, had congratulated Newgate for defeating so many of his soldiers before reaching the very well protected room, and in what he must have believed a magnanimous proposal he had offered him to join his personal guard.

The tremor Edward created as an answer was nowhere near strong enough to kill or destroy the building, but it did throw the whole group to the floor. Then, the so called lord, after staring fixedly at him for all of two seconds, ordered all of his men to capture him as a new addition to his collection.

Collection.

The man has —had— a collection. Somewhere in this building, and Newgate somehow doubts that the whole thing is made up of objects. He wanted to add a human being to it, which can only mean one thing.

Slaves.

He looks around, to see if there is someone still conscious, but no one moves the slightest bit nor groan, and he realizes he has killed them all in his rage.

It doesn't matter. He just has to think. Where would you keep slaves, to have them both out of the way and prevent an easy escape? The basement, of course.

Now he just has to find the entrance.

* * *

A string of all the curses he has ever heard runs as a mantra in his head as he tries to stand up, arms barely holding his upper body upright after his legs have given way under him. It's been so long since he walked, the chains tied to his wrists and ankles in his cell too short to allow him to stand properly, that he hasn't managed to move long.

It doesn't matter that he has killed the two guards; if he can't move anymore, he can't escape either way, and the fast disappearance of voices in the house tells him the attacker is moving fast, and it is a matter of time before they begin to search the house —because why else would somebody attack this place if not for the money, gold and other valuables?—and find him.

He has to go, and now it seems he won't even be able to reach the kitchens first and steal some food beforehand. They aren't far from here, he knows because he has been taken there enough times to be tortured with the sight of more food than he could even imagine, but it doesn't matter if his legs _won't move_.

He freezes. The attacker is coming closer now, he can hear the voice more clearly with each passing moment.

He curses and bites down on his the inside of his dry mouth. He was so close.

Gathering all of his forces, he manages to push himself into a sitting position against the wall, the cold stone helping to hold up his body as he can't do on his own.

If he is going to die, he refuses to do so sprawled on the ground and unable to see his killer. And he refuses to cry, too.

It doesn't matter how much the few tears his eyes are capable to create want to go down, he won't let them.

He can hear the faint sound of heavy steps, now.

He was so close.

* * *

Edward Newgate freezes in his tracks. It seems he has found the collection. Or a piece of it, at least.

There, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, is a naked man. Or perhaps a boy, it's hard to tell. He is young, Newgate can tell that much, but whether he is fifteen or twenty five is impossible to guess. His body is so thin that the man can tell apart all his ribs, as well as many other bones he doesn't know the names of. The tuft of hair on his head is matted with blood and dirt to the point where it is impossible to tell what color it really is. There is a slave collar around his neck, the bloodied chain connected to it pooling on the ground, and he also has also blood on his hands and splattered over his paper-white skin in a way that suggests at least not all of it is his, just as the apparent lack of wounds does.

He has sunken cheeks, and there's no hair on his chin —or anywhere else in his body besides his head for that matter— and lips so parched it's a wonder part of them hasn't fallen off.

Newgate avoids looking at the boy's eyes for his whole scrutiny that can't have taken up more than a couple of seconds, but he braces himself and finally does so.

He has to refrain from taking a step back.

The boy's blue eyes are burning with defiance. There is no fear, no tears, no emptiness, nothing resembling the eyes of the few slaves he has seen before. There is no trace in those eyes of a broken soul, a soul that should, that would be expected, to mimic the body housing them.

The boy can't stand, that much is obvious from the way his arms hang limply at his sides, how he is no longer really holding the chain and it is instead just resting on his half-open hand. All his strength seems centered on holding his head high —because his head is held high despite the notorious difference of height with Newgate's own head— and his eyes focused.

"Are you going to kill me?"

The question takes him back. Not the words, they aren't so different from what he has heard —what he has been asked for— from other slaves, but the voice in which it is spoken is unexpected. It is raspy from disuse, but that doesn't interfere with the calm, almost indifferent tone the boy has used. He isn't asking to be killed, he isn't begging for it as Newgate has been begged on a couple of occasions.

He doesn't care.

No, that's not true. He c_ares_. And that is the most surprising of it all.

_The boy wants to live._

"What's your name, son?"

He sees the boy's eyes widen to almost the size of saucers, and wonders how long it has been since anybody asked that of him. How long it has been since anybody used his name.

The boy hesitates, and for a moment Newgate wonders if he even has a name and, if he does, if he remembers it. Before he can express those thoughts, however, that calm voice that doesn't fit the situation at all answers:

"Marco."

The older man grins.

"I'm Edward Newgate, a pirate," he sees Marco's eyes widen and grins when he notices the boy still isn't afraid, "what do you say, Marco? Do you want to join my crew and become my son?"

* * *

Marco feels his jaw going slack, and he is sure the man, Edward Newgate, can see it.

He had expected many possible developments for this meeting, and all of them ended, invariably, in his own death —because he isn't going to become a slave again, and he knows there are many people out there who would feel entitled to own him because he has been one once already— but _this_ hadn't crossed his mind.

And he isn't sure he can fully understand it.

'_Join my crew'_. Something inside Marco stirs at these words, a fragment of a life, of a child's innocence, that he thought destroyed. Or perhaps it's a memory of a long dead dream. An image of a wooden tree house and a crate serving as a table to draw maps comes to mind.

'_Become my son'_. Son? What is a son? He knows the meaning of the word, of course, but not beyond a textbook definition. What does a son do? What does being a son mean? He has never been a son, not even _before_. And it's such a strange question.

The man before him is strange. Why hasn't he attacked? He is strong, Marco knows that, so strong he has killed all the guards Marco couldn't dream to defeat without getting more than a few scratches for his trouble. Why is he here, then? Why is he wasting time with someone no one has ever bothered beyond using to obtain their twisted pleasure, someone no one has even acknowledged as human for so long? The collar around his neck marks him as someone —because he is _not_ a thing or a property, he has always refused to accept that and never will— that no one should consider as an equal.

But he doesn't ask about that, only a word comes out of his sorely unused throat.

"Son?"

The smile that stretches Newgate's lips is an expression that has never been directed at Marco before, not even when he was considered human by the world. It is a caring gesture, one filled with pride and deep longing. He knows those emotions, has seen them before, but never before all together, and never in such a soft expression, no smugness to accompany the pride and no envy or anger to join the longing. And it brings a heavy weight to Marco's dry throat.

"It's my dream. To have a family."

* * *

He sees the surprise on Marco's gaunt face. It's such a common, yet unique reaction. Marco is surprised, yes, most people are after hearing his dream, but he isn't amused, he isn't mocking him. It's almost as if the boy can't understand his dream and, in all honesty, Newgate wouldn't be surprised if he discovered he really can't.

Marco's jaw, that had fallen at hearing his offer, trembles, and the man expect him to cry. Tears do gather in his eyes —not many, because he doubts the boy's body has the necessary energy to produce them—, but they don't fall. Somehow, Marco manages to hold them back, and the impressive willpower Newgate has seen in these few minutes amazes him.

"Why would you want… _me_?"

He sees the expression that crosses Marco's face as soon as those words are out and realizes the boy hadn't meant to ask that question. The man can almost tell, just by looking at the boy before him —and now his first idea that he could be even twenty five seems absurd, he is just a child—, that he is struggling to understand. Newgate doesn't know what he has been told or for how long, but he knows what is thought of slaves by those who trade and buy them, and those notions are obviously fighting with whatever has kept Marco sane.

He walks closer, there had still been some ten feet separating them, and stoops down on one knee. He still towers over the boy, who is tall for the life he has led —he absently wonders how tall Marco would have grown if he hadn't been forced into slavery—, but he hopes this position isn't as intimidating as the previous one. Marco might have not shown it, but the pirate doubts he hadn't felt intimidated at all by him.

"I like you, Marco," he says. In any other circumstance, with someone who hadn't lived through what Marco has, he would have used 'brat', not as an insult, but as a way to show they were worrying over nothing. Now, however, he is sure any word like that would have the wrong effect on Marco. Mentioning his name, however, seemed to go well before.

Marco's lower lip trembles again, and this time he bites it. A tear falls down all the same, and when Marco parts his lips he pulls with his teeth a strip of dry skin.

* * *

'Marco'.

Not 'it', not 'you', not 'that' or 'this'. 'Son', when the man didn't know his name, but nothing else.

Is this too good to be true? Is he dreaming again? Maybe one of those hallucinations that sometimes come to him after an especially bad day. Today hasn't been one of these days, but perhaps his mind had decided to bring them more often.

A beeping sound fills his ears.

He freezes, and the part of his mind that used to think there might be a higher entity desperately wishes that this _is_ a hallucination.

But it doesn't matter. The collar around his neck is beeping, for some reason activated. Whether it did because his 'master' is dead, because of something about Marco himself or because someone pressed the button on the remote it doesn't matter, it is about to explode and he has to get away.

Because this man cares, or at least is the closest to caring that anybody has ever been, and Marco doesn't want to see him dead because of it.

"Go away," he asks, his voice cracking slightly for the first time. This is unknown territory and he doesn't know how to react.

The man doesn't move, instead leaning closer, and Marco puts the little strength he has gathered into crawling away. He has to get as far from the man as possible. The beeping is coming out faster, and it must be a matter of moments now.

A huge hand stops him, easily wrapping around most of his body, and it brings him closer to Newgate.

In the panic that's rapidly taking over him —_Panic!_ He hasn't felt that in what must be years!—he does something he hadn't done in so long he thought himself incapable of doing anymore.

He struggles.

"Let go! Do you want to die?!" Yelling is almost a new experience to him, and he is so intent on freeing himself that his head doesn't register what his action could result into.

"Stay still, I'm trying to get these off," Newgate says, and this time he sounds annoyed. Marco freezes, taking that for one of the orders he has long since learned to obey in order to avoid _consequences._

He is still now, and can hear the keys jingling in the man's hand. He doesn't see them, because the lock is at the back of his neck, but the pirate is grumbling and it doesn't feel like any of the keys he is trying fits. The beeping is coming so fast now he can't differentiate between each individual sound.

Marco doesn't realize, later won't be able to remember when it happened exactly, but blue flames burst from his body and they envelop everything, wrapping themselves around the collar in a way that, though not completely containing the blast, when it explodes only minor burnt marcs are left on Newgate's hands.

He transforms back into his human form without really thinking of it, too. He doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. He's done it now, he showed his power.

Now, whatever pity or curiosity the man felt for him is gone, and he only hopes Newgate doesn't feel to angry at him —he has saved him from at least very serious burns, and no normal human, even stronger than usual, would have come out of that unscathed—, and Marco hopes that will be enough for the man to simply leave him there, not kill him or decide to use him too.

There is only one thing that didn't change when he became a slave, and it is what other think of his power. He is a monster, he has heard it for as long as he can remember, he knows normal people can't do these things. That eating one of those cursed fruits turns someone into a monster.

Marco turns, if only because his blood is pounding so loud in his head that he can barely feel anything, and he wants to know when the first strike will come.

Newgate is smiling. He isn't smirking, he isn't staring at him with disgust or condescension. He is _smiling at him_.

"So you're a Devil Fruit user,"

Marco nods. He knows answering questions prevents people from getting angrier in most cases.

Newgate laughs. It's a loud sound, but it's not high-pitched, nor is it cold. It's a strange sound, Marco doesn't know when the last time he heard a good-natured laugh was. He doesn't even know how he knows that what he is hearing is that, but he somehow does.

Then the man raises a fist and Marco fights back a flinch —a punch from that must hurt way more than the ones he is used to receive from time to time— but it's not aimed at him, it is pointed to the side and in an angle that would be awkward to punch him, and Marco observes, confused, as Edward Newgate just punches the air.

And the air _trembles_.

A crack appears across the opposite wall. It's shallow, but it is there, and a stronger tremor might have made the building crumble.

"I ate one, too," and, at Marco's dumbfounded expression, he laughs again.

And something he never really believed to happen —even if he wanted it to— happens: far beyond the impossible dreams he entertains himself with during the long hours of solitude, far beyond anything he ever allowed himself to wish for, for the first time in forever Marco feels hope.

He is a monster to the world, but so is Edward Newgate. The man isn't angry, he isn't disgusted; he is laughing, and he still hasn't let go of Marco. It's not a painful hold, either, and it is the only reason why Marco hasn't crumbled to the ground at this point. The man keeping him up has not only offered to take him away, he has _saved_ him. Because that tremor wasn't unlike the one that shook the manor earlier, the one that had those four guards dash away and allowed Marco to escape.

And that is why Marco allows himself to hope, just this once, that something might go well.

He doesn't wait, he might change his mind, second-guess himself, and so he raises his head to look the man in the eye.

"I want to join your crew."

* * *

He grins. He just can't help it.

He stands up, lifting Marco in both hands as he does. The boy yelps, that is more of a reaction than he had expected, but doesn't voice any complaints. Any other boy his age would be yelling at the indignity of being carried that way and demanding to be put down immediately, even if they were in a state as bad as Marco's and obviously couldn't walk on their own.

He decides to take a small risk and act as if Marco had reacted that way. He raises an eyebrow.

"Can you walk?" He doesn't use an overly teasing tone, he doesn't know if it has ever been used with Marco for something that it shouldn't, and is relieved when the boy doesn't react adversely.

"No," he answers, and lets himself be shuffled into a more comfortable position on one of the captain's arms, not sitting up because Newgate doubts he can keep that stance on his own.

"We should get you some food and clothes. A shower, too." Raising the now charred keys, he fumbles with them until he finds the right one for the equally charred collar still lodged around Marco's neck and finally opens it, the object falling uselessly to the floor.

Marco answers his question about where the kitchen is, he hasn't passed it before, and he begins walking in a much better mood than when he had entered the mansion. He now has his first crewmember —who hasn't really agreed to become his son as well but Newgate is determined to earn his trust enough for that with time— and they will soon set sail away from this cursed island.

He doesn't delude himself, he knows Marco is far from alright. There is a long way ahead before the boy can get past what he has lived for who knows how long, and it won't be an easy path most of the time.

Newgate is determined to help him in every step of the way. He won't let his first son fall apart when he is there to prevent it from happening.

* * *

This story appears as complete BUT I will update it from time to time. It's not going to be a fanfic in the sense of it showing the whole story, but we will see bits and pieces of what happens from this point onward. There's no update schedule, though.

Leave a review before you go? :)


	2. Food

I'm not sure if you guys really expected me to update this, but here is the next part :) It's shorter, as will be the case with most of the updates, because they will be centered around specific moments or issues.

This one, too, has been beta-read by Anjelle :D

* * *

**Food**

They arrive at the kitchen in silence. Newgate has to crouch down to enter through the wide double doors, but once inside the ceiling is as tall as in the rest of the house, and he can stand upright easily enough. Contrary to most of the other rooms he's been to, there are no fancy lamps here he that has to be mindful of here.

It hasn't gone unnoticed to him that Marco tensed the moment they entered the room, and he has to wonder if something has been done to him here.

He puts Marco down in one of the wooden chairs by the table to the side of the room. The boy doesn't move, but his eyes take in the whole room and his knuckles are even whiter than the rest of his skin, fists clenched tight.

"Stay here a moment, I'm going to take a look around." He waits for Marco's nod before heading to the cupboards lining a whole wall of the massive room.

He isn't sure what to do, the closest things he's experienced to this situation are stomach wounds. Soft meals and in small quantities so as to not upset the stomach — that sounds like it could work. He doesn't dare to guess how long it has been since Marco last ate, and they can't risk having his stomach react adversely to food now.

There is a bowl of fruit on the counter. He remembers the doctor telling him to avoid citruses once when he had received a wound to the stomach, but bananas were fine. With that thought in mind, he takes one banana —he'll see how Marco's body reacts to it before giving him anything else— and turns around.

He finds Marco's blue eyes fixed on him, and he has no doubt the boy has been following every one of his movements. Newgate can't say he is surprised; Marco has shown an amazing level of trust already, but it would be stupid to think the boy isn't wary and most likely fearing a turn for the worse at any moment.

He walks back to the table and offers the banana to him.

"Here."

Marco's eyes widen, and he takes the offered fruit with a speed the pirate hadn't believed him capable of. There is a mixture of mistrust and wonder in Marco's eyes, and Newgate walks away once more to show he has no intention of taking the food away.

He hears the boy begin to eat, fast and almost choking on more than one occasion.

He risks a look backwards and sees Marco devouring the fruit, taking huge bites and swallowing them as fast as possible. There are tears running down his face. Marco didn't cry when he thought Newgate would kill him, he didn't cry when he thought he had ruined everything with his devil fruit, but he is crying because he is eating a banana.

Edward Newgate wishes he hadn't killed the owner of the house, because that man deserves a much slower death than the one he had.

* * *

Marco brings his hands to his stomach in wonder. It hurts, and he supposes he shouldn't have eaten so fast, but it is the best kind of pain he has ever experienced. His stomach hurts because he has _eaten_. He can barely wrap his mind around it.

The pain soon fades, it seems his power can heal even something as foreign to his body as that, but he knows the memory will be one very hard to fade.

At the counters, Newgate — his captain — is opening cupboards and taking out food and other things, putting them into bags he has taken out of somewhere.

Marco stands up — and is surprised by the fact that he can hold himself up, even if he wobbles a little —, intent on demonstrating his gratitude, and walks to where Newgate is now taking packages of pasta down from a cupboard that someone of average height would need a ladder to reach.

"What are you doing?" He asks, thinking of the man's previous actions to convince himself it's not very likely the captain will be angered by his question.

"Stocking up provisions." The man answers.

He stops, and his eyes run over Marco's body. Marco resists the urge to squirm. He knows he looks like a twig, and he really hopes the man won't decide he is too weak to become a pirate. But the captain only takes a bag and hands it to Marco.

"Look through the lower line of cupboards and take any non-perishable food you see."

Marco nods, takes the bag and turns to go do as he has been told. His captain's voice stops him.

"And, Marco, eat another banana while you're at it."

He is floored by those words. _Another?_

"Yes, sir," he answers, and hurries to do as he has been told before the man decides to change his mind. That is without a doubt the best order Marco has ever received.

A minute later, when Marco kneels on the floor before the cupboard to one end of the counter to see the contents better, he doesn't feel his stomach twist as it usually does, because he is _eating_ and the sight of the rows of canned soup doesn't hurt as it would have a mere hour ago.


	3. Some Living Arrangements

Here's the next scene :) But don't get used to such frequent updates, I doubt this rhythm will last xD

Thank you so much for all the reviews :) And thanks to Anjelle for beta-reading this :)

* * *

**Some Living Arrangements**

Marco is standing next to him in the kitchen, stirring the pot containing the soup on the stove as Newgate fries the amount of meat he is going to have for dinner. He would much rather that Marco —so thin and obviously tired— stayed sitting in one of the chairs while he prepares dinner, but the few hours they have spent together have made it clear that Marco feels uncomfortable not doing anything while someone else does.

At least, with the fruit he has eaten and the water he has drunk while they scoured the house —and Newgate is amazed at the boy's stomach's resilience; he wouldn't have believed him capable of eating a third piece of fruit without getting sick— the boy no longer looks as if he will keel over at any moment. Barely.

With Marco's general knowledge of the house, they moved faster than the captain would have been able to do on his own. Their first destination after the kitchen was a bathroom, where Marco took a shower, or attempted to, at least. If it had been up to the boy, he would have just scrubbed himself with water —_cold_ water— and his own hands ("This is fine. They just use the hose when they want to clean me."). Newgate had to turn on the warm water —and Marco's marveled expression when he felt it on his skin was like a punch to the gut— and hand him over the soap. He had to insist again when Marco said he didn't need any hair products. It turns out his hair is blond, not unlike Newgate's.

After that, they headed for the cells where the slaves were kept —they weren't going to abandon anybody there— and were met by the nauseating stench of melted flesh and skin and a dozen chained, burned bodies.

For a moment, the captain expected Marco to break down —or throw up, as he had just eaten for the first time in who knew how long— but the younger of the two blonds just turned around and walked out the door again. In that moment, Newgate was certain that had he attacked any other time, Marco would be one more of those bodies. He didn't need confirmation to know the bastards kept him chained with kairoseki.

After that disturbing discovery, they climbed up to the ground floor, where the soldiers' rooms were. They moved from room to room until they found clothes from someone slim and of Marco's height. Marco had tried to insist it wasn't necessary.

Newgate gives his now first mate —though he doubts the boy knows he is that— another sideways glance. The shirt that no doubt is meant to be form-fitting falls loosely from Marco's bony shoulders; it is open, displaying protruding ribs and a sunken stomach, because Marco didn't button it up and Newgate didn't insist that he did. By looking at the way the smaller blond has been fidgeting since he put them on, it is obvious he hasn't worn any clothes in a long time. The only reason the pants hold up is because of the belt tightly secured around the waist, and they had to open a new hole on it with a kitchen knife for that to happen. But what undoubtedly gives the boy the most trouble are the boots. Marco has been squirming unobtrusively and shifting his feet all the time, and he is so careful that the older man wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been paying such close attention. Sandals would have been much better, but they hadn't managed to find a single pair in any of the rooms.

"It's warm already," Marco's voice interrupts his thoughts. Looking at the pot, he sees it is already releasing steam, more or less what the instructions in the can meant about heating it.

"Good, then put it on a plate and take it to the table."

"Yes, sir," Marco answers in the way Newgate doesn't quite like but knows would be too hard to correct right now.

It isn't until the boy turns to go to the cupboard where the older man pointed earlier that the plates are kept that the captain realizes Marco hasn't smiled like the previous times he was going to eat.

It is painfully clear why.

"Marco."

The boy stops, the cabinet door already open.

"Yes, sir?"

"The soup is for you."

Marco slowly turns, his previously sleepy-looking eyes now wide like saucers.

"For me...?"

Newgate grins, deciding to act as if he hasn't noticed Marco's surprise.

"Your stomach isn't well enough for meat yet."

When Marco doesn't answer, still staring at him in disbelief, Newgate sighs and decides to spell out the message he had wanted to get across through actions.

"You will have three meals a day _and _you can eat whenever you want aside from that. Drink, too," he adds for good measure, and decides to clarify something else to prevent possible accidents. "But not booze, you won't be able to take that until you've put on a good deal of weight."

Marco's expression at that moment is not something that can be described with words. It makes Newgate's heart clench, and it is as if all the air has been sucked out of his body. In that moment he knows he will do everything in his power to get Marco to be the man he could be, away from the shell others tried to turn him into.


	4. As it should be

Here is the next update. This is one of the scenes I've really wanted to write since I started this story, so I hope you like it ^^

Thanks go to Anjelle for revising this :D

* * *

**As it should be**

Marco doesn't mind the silence. Actually, he does like it. Silence has always meant he is left alone; no insults, no taunts, no beatings. Up until now, whenever there was someone else in a room with him, it has always been as if they couldn't shut up, as if they have to prove how superior they are, how very _unimportant_ Marco is. Not worthless, because the 'master' did pay a good sum for him, but his value extends only to that amount of money and whatever use others can make of him.

That is why Marco doesn't mind eating dinner in silence. It is true that Newgate hasn't insulted or taunted him, but there is a good gap between that and having a conversation. Marco doesn't know how to have a conversation, it has been so long he doesn't remember the last one he had —slaves, back in the dungeons, did not talk; most of them were too broken to even be aware they could do so when they weren't ordered to— and, anyway, it's not as if the captain would want to have a conversation with him.

Marco swallows the last spoonful of his soup —he has eaten it slower than the fruit, having belatedly realized that seeing him wolfing down whatever he is given might bother the other man while he is, too, eating. Marco doesn't want to provoke him and risking losing his newfound privilege of eating. He stands up, taking his plate in one hand and his empty glass of water in the other, and goes to the sink to wash them.

The blond is perfectly aware of the eyes following him, it's been years since he became aware of that sixth sense of his that allows him to know what others do and even intend to do— but doesn't react, because the gaze is the most harmless one he has ever perceived, and he simply washes the utensils. Once they are on the drying rack, he turns to see if the captain is done, but the man's plate still has meat on it. He would have stood next to the counter to wait, but the taller man speaks.

"You should go to bed, you look exhausted."

Marco is startled by those words, and it takes him a moment to realize Newgate _has_ to be talking to him, because there is no one else not only in the room, but on the whole ship. Still, the concept is so alien it takes Marco a moment to process it. But, of course, it soon makes sense: this is a ship, here its occupants have to do manual labor just to keep it working and in good condition, he remembers that much. This isn't a manor where he will be kept in a cell and his state couldn't matter less, because here, with only two people, it could be a problem that he was too tired to react in time to something.

And so he nods.

"You remember where the cabin is?"

Marco nods again, and decides, because he wants to prove that he had really been paying attention during the quick explanation of how the ship is distributed, to elaborate.

"The upper deck, next to the bathroom."

The captain smiles, obviously pleased, and Marco feels the strange urge to smile as well. He refrains from it, because it is absurd and he doesn't know how the man will react to something like that. He never smiled back at the manor, and doesn't have the smallest idea of what others will think of it. He isn't eager to find out, things are going too well to risk offending his new captain.

So, instead, Marco wishes him a good night —because he does remember some manners, even if they are so rusty it's a miracle they even exist any longer— and excuses himself.

As he walks up the stairs outside to the upper deck —there are only two, and then the space below deck that is mostly for storage— the boy looks around, at the calm dark sea surrounding the ship for as far as he can see, and up at the bright stars he had, regretfully, forgotten the look of. He would like to stop, perhaps walk to one of the empty areas of the deck and lay on the floor to look up at the magnificent lights, to try to trigger his memory and see if he can remember any of the names he once memorized, but Marco is no idiot, and he isn't about to push his luck. Thus, Marco gives the sky a last, wistful look when he reaches the door and enters the sleeping cabin.

It is a big space, most of the ship is made of big spaces, really, as Newgate wouldn't fit in otherwise. There is a huge bed at the far end of the room, obviously the captain's bed, and there are two others, these of average size, propped each against one of the two other walls without a door.

There are, as well, metal closets bolted to the floor —the blond guesses it is so they won't move if the weather becomes rough, and notices the beds are bolted to the floorboards as well— again one of them considerably bigger than the other. For a moment, Marco wonders if his new clothes —still in one of the sacks they brought from the manor— will be placed in one of the other, smaller closets, and almost snorts at the absurdity of the idea.

Three of the room's walls, the fourth one being the one shared with the bathroom, have small, round windows carved into them, and they let the moonlight into the bedroom. They probably would, even if only in a small measure, no matter the position of the moon.

Again, Marco feels that strange urge to smile, because this is by far a much better arrangement than what he had expected —he didn't ask, but he has been convinced since he saw the ship that he would be sent to one of the lower storage rooms, and that was fine by him.

One of the clearest memories he has from before is at night, how he used to sleep under the stars, sometimes on top of a pile of blankets, the ground or, the last few months, on the small mattress he found abandoned in an alleyway one day.

That, sleeping under the stars, is one of the things he has missed most. This may be a room, but the dim light from outside comes in, and it falls on various places, what with all the windows that let it in, giving the room a welcome air his former 'master's' luxurious bedroom never had.

Marco belatedly realizes he hasn't been told exactly _where_ he has to sleep, even if the captain's words from earlier suggest it is in this room, but it is obvious which one is the man's bed and, the younger blond guesses, if he stays out of the way the man, who has proven to be impossibly kind so far, won't have a problem.

His mind made up, Marco walks to the corner where the wall with the door joins one of the walls with a smaller bed and a circle of light currently illuminates the floorboards and slowly lowers himself on the ground. He would like to take his boots off, they are uncomfortable, but they were given to him and Marco doesn't know if it would be an offense to take them off without explicit permission, and so he leaves them on.

His head turned to one of the windows on the opposite wall, the last thing Marco sees before falling asleep is the bright, almost full moon shining through the glass, accompanied by a small mantle of stars.

* * *

Marco hadn't been so disoriented upon waking up in years. There is brightness behind his eyelids; something is on top of him, but it's not anything heavy nor does it restrain him in any way, as his hands are still both free and one is, in fact, outside of whatever is on top of him, his whole right arm resting over the thing; but, most strange of all, he is lying on something _soft_, not a hard surface, not the stone floor of his cell and not, he remembers belatedly, the wooden floor of the cabin.

He doesn't jump, doesn't stand up suddenly, because that is something he learned long ago not to do. Instead, the boy opens his eyes. The brightness seems to be the sun that is already out —it is so strange to wake up with daylight, something he has barely seen in so long— and whatever is covering him, he realizes now that he is more aware, is cloth. In fact, it is the sheet of the bed where he is lying.

This time Marco does sit up abruptly and looks down and around at himself. The sheet is now draped around his waist, his hands both on top of it and, he now notices, his feet are touching the bed as well; he doesn't have his boots on.

Carefully, the blond raises his head to look around the room, but he is alone. The sheets crumpled and thrown haphazardly in the captain's bed the only sign of the man's presence. The boots are next to the bed Marco is in, and he puts them on. They bother him a little less than they did yesterday.

The captain isn't outside on deck and, remembering it probably is time for breakfast, Marco walks cautiously toward the kitchen, now aware as well that he has overslept. He should have asked at what time he was expected to wake up, and what he should do once he did, and now he wonders what will be the consequences of his carelessness.

He is rested, however, far more well-rested than he has been in years, and a beating would be worth it without a doubt.

At the kitchen, the captain is slicing some fruits —they have to be eaten first because they won't last too long— and Marco cringes, aware that he should be the one doing it.

"…Sir?" he asks tentatively, because he is no coward and it's better to face one's punishment as soon as possible. That way, it will be over sooner as well.

Newgate raises his head, taking his eyes away from the apples that look too small in his hands, and grins at him. Marco fights not to flinch now that he is being observed. He doesn't like to show fear, he hasn't ever shown it and won't start now, no matter how much he is sure a beating from Edward Newgate will make any others he has ever received pale in comparison.

"Morning, Marco. Was going to go wake you now."

Now Marco blinks, confused, because there is no trace of anger, not even annoyance, in the man's voice. Aware that he is standing stupidly in the doorway, the boy hurries to take the plates with something yellow he doesn't remember the name of and bring them to the table.

"Did you sleep well?"

Marco freezes, his back going ramrod straight. Here it is. He shouldn't have been surprised. Maybe his 'master' didn't, but many soldiers sounded pleasant and in great moods right before hitting him. Made their day, Marco heard once.

"About that, sir-" Marco begins, voice steady, but he is interrupted.

"Why were you on the floor?"

The surprise comes right back. The man is disconcerted, truly disconcerted —his ears tell him that, and his sixth sense tells Marco there is no attack currently on the way— and the younger blond, after carefully placing the plated on the table, turns around.

"Because that's my place, sir."

The expression that takes over the captain's face is a strange one, something Marco doesn't know how to decipher. He would say there was pain in it, except that there is no sign that the man is hurt anywhere, and anyway that expression isn't like those pained ones he has seen so often from other slaves and even himself when he saw his reflection in any surface. He doesn't have time to ponder it for long, because the older man soon speaks.

"That's not your place, Marco."

Now he's even more confused. Hadn't the captain told him to go to the cabin? Should he have chosen a different spot? And why had he been on the bed, anyway? Marco hasn't given it any thought. Sleepwalking, perhaps, would be his choice. Being in a room with beds after so long, perhaps he went to one without realizing it or something.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, swallows and opens it again.

"…You moved me to the bed?"

The captain nods.

"That's your bed."

Marco is so awestruck he can't muster the energy to react in any way.


End file.
